


The Bench

by notjustmom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, angsty bits, extra fluffy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 01:58:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11636580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: Sherlock returns, but he doesn't know who he is...





	1. Chapter 1

John had finally gotten to the point when he didn't see him on the tube going to work, or turning a corner, and even at Tesco, where he knew he only went on penalty of - what was worse than death - when he sat down on a park bench and turned to apologize to the other occupant. Tall, but not that tall, overly long, dark scraggly curls, flashing blueishgreenish eyes blinked at him, the same lips, though torn and chapped, but it wasn't him. Couldn't be him. Because Sherlock Holmes was dead. Had been dead for over three years. Ella had finally made him face it. He knew his friend was dead, he saw him fall, no one survives that, he had made Molly show him her autopsy report. He thought about making an excuse and fleeing, but he didn't, found he couldn't move. So he started talking.

"Beautiful day."

The man nodded, then pulled a tattered notebook from his pocket and a pencil, and he wrote carefully, as if it hurt him to do so, left-handed. See. Couldn't be him, Sherlock was right-handed. Couldn't be him. He tore the piece of paper out and offered it to John.

"Could you tell me where I am?"

John's fingers tightened on the paper, the writing was all wrong, and Sherlock could never get so lost, so mixed up that he didn't know Lond - stop. He is dead. This man has hit his head, or been ill, perhaps he's escaped from somewhere, but he can't be Sherlock. John sighed and whispered. "London, Regent's Park." He looked up to see the man smile at him, then turn away and scribble in his notebook again, his fingers shook as he handed the paper to John.

"Thank you. Wasn't sure. No one else would sit and talk to me. Thank you."

John grinned then. Definitely not Sherlock, he couldn't remember Sherlock ever saying thank you, or admit to being unsure about anything. The man looked at him oddly for a moment, then wrote again, a bit faster, a bit impatiently.

"What?"

"You remind me of someone, rather, you don't remind me, it's just you look like someone I knew once, but he would never say thank you, it just wasn't something he did." John looked at his hands and sighed as his left hand tensed into a fist. He felt the man next him move suddenly, as if surprised or scared. "Sorry - I didn't mean to scare you. My hand - never been quite the same -"

"Since Afghanistan?" 

John shivered, but nodded.

"Shoulder."

John muttered. "Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

John blinked and made himself look at the man next to him. He was there. He seemed real, solid. But he had to be sure. He reached out with trembling fingers, but the man shook his head.

"Please. Don't. Please."

John nodded, and got up. "Sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. I - I have some place I need to be. Here -" He pulled out his wallet and took out a five pound note. "It's all I have with me, you could get a coffee or something. Please, take it? It would - it would mean a lot to me if you -"

The man nodded as he took the note and shoved it in his pocket.

"Thank you. What is your name?"

"John. John Watson. What is yours?"

"You can call me Billy."

John drew in a breath sharply, but was able to get to his feet.

"I'm a -"

"GP. Can tell from your hands, and your stethoscope, you sometimes forget to take it off." As he gave John this last missive, he smirked in that way, the way Sherlock used to when John was being an idiot.

"Right. If you ever need anything -" John pulled out one of his cards, then laid it on the bench next to 'Billy'. "I work all hours, in fact, I'm late getting back -" He felt like he should wave or do something equally as ridiculous, but he just nodded, turned on his heel and walked away. He tried not looking back, but he couldn't help it. He was gone. John looked around, but he was nowhere to be seen. "Great. Now, I'm seeing ghosts. Damn it, Sherlock." He shoved his hands in his pockets, and felt the crumpled pages that he must have put into his pocket. He pulled them out and watched as a gentle breeze caught them and blew them away. "Ghosts can't write. Ghosts can't hold pencils. Because ghosts don't exist, but he does." For some reason that fact didn't make him feel any more at ease. He shook his head and texted Ella for an extra appointment.


	2. Chapter 2

Billy sighed silently as he sat in the tree and watched as John turned to look for him. People never look up. Why is that, he wondered. He waited until he was certain that John was out of sight, then he carefully climbed down and sat on the bench once more. It took longer than it should have because something was wrong with his right arm, fingers didn't work properly, perhaps with time, it would become functional again. He sighed again and tried to curl and uncurl his fingers. Time. Damn. He should have asked J - John? what year it was, at least what day of the week it was, not that it mattered all that much. Yes, he could buy a paper, but he was down to his last, he felt in his left trouser pocket, and found a few pound coins, a few euros and the five pound note, his last ten pounds. And he wasn't sure of much, but he knew he was positive that he had no desire to read a paper. London. He pulled out his notebook and stub of a pencil, need to get another pencil soon, he thought, then he printed as neatly as he could in his weaker hand:

"London. Regent's Park. John. GP."

For once, he wished he could speak. He didn't quite know when it had happened, but at some point, his voice had simply stopped working. He had opened his mouth some time ago in order to say something and nothing came out. He recognized it would be easier if he could speak, not everyone was as understanding as the doctor he had met a few minutes ago. He stopped and closed his eyes, and realized it wasn't the first time he had met John Watson. But the memory was gone, like almost everything. All he knew was that at some point in his life, someone had called him Billy and he hadn't minded too much. He also knew at that moment that he needed to figure out who the hell he was, preferably sooner than later.

 

Mycroft Holmes sighed as he pushed away from his desk and resisted the bottle and tumbler that were always present in the bottom left hand drawer. It might help him breathe a bit better, but it wasn't going to help him help his brother who had essentially lost his mind. It wasn't that he had gone crazy, his brother for all of his many flaws, and there were many, he was the sanest person he had ever known, Mycroft reflected, it was that he had literally lost most of his memories somewhere between Serbia and London. Admittedly, Sherlock had been in terrible shape when his people had finally tracked him down, and hadn't spoken a word, in English or any other language once they had settled them on the jet, and from what he had witnessed once he had given his security detail the slip a week ago, he hadn't spoken a word since. The interaction between his brother and Dr. Watson had been enlightening. It appeared that the good doctor was still convinced of his friend's demise; it also unfortunately confirmed the elder Holmes' theory that his younger brother had no idea who he was. He had made no attempt to visit his old rooms on Baker Street, or to make contact with Molly Hooper, who was one of the few of his 'friends' who had known his secret, and who had been central in helping to create the illusion of Sherlock's death. Mycroft sighed as he replayed the scene earlier in the day between his brother and Dr. Watson for the tenth time. Dr. Watson evidently saw the resemblance to his dead friend, but somehow got past that fact quickly and was able to have compassion for this mute man who was apparently homeless and in need of medical attention. He had left abruptly as Sherlock, even in his condition, was able to deduce what the man was, even though it would have been obvious to anyone with a brain.

"Have you located him?" Lady Smallwood inquired quietly. He hadn't heard her slip into the room.

"Yes. Made first contact with Dr. Watson finally. Completely by coincide - by accident."

"The universe seems to be illogically concerned with the welfare of your brother these days."

She paused as she observed his stoic mask slip a bit as he replayed the scene once more.

"What are you going to do?"

"Monitor him, step in if needed, but I think Dr. Watson may be the key to his recovery."

"You're not planning on kidnapping him again, are you?"

"Heavens, no." Mycroft rolled his eyes and texted Anthea.

 

More coffee - MH

Sir. - A

A large pot of coffee. - MH

Sir. - A

 

"I do learn from my mistakes, Alicia. I don't make many, but when I do, I know not to make that particular error again."

 

John had moved from Baker Street to a small studio across town a few months after Sherlock's funeral. Mrs. Hudson had understood, and they met for dinner once in a while to trade gossip and tried not to mention Sherlock's name. Tonight, she had gone all out, but he had little appetite.

"John, dear?"

"Mmmm?"

"What is it? Did something happen today?"

"Yes. No. I'm not exactly sure. Today I went through Regent's Park on my lunch hour, which I never do, and I sat on a bench, you know the one near the large old oak and the pond?" Mrs. Hudson nodded, as she poured him another glass of wine. "I sat next to a man who looked just like -"

"Say his name, love."

John shook his head and took a sip of wine.

"It's been over three years, John."

"It's still like it was yesterday, Martha. It was him, but not him, because it couldn't be him, because I buried him, we buried him, in the ground, six feet under. But, I swear, if there was any chance of him being alive, it was how I imagined he would come back. He was obviously hurt, had lost a lot of weight, and he couldn't speak. He wrote little notes to me, he used his left hand, and his right arm looked wrong he moved like his entire right side was compromised, uhm, broken. But, Martha, he asked me where he was. Sherlock would never, he could never forget London. Because if he forgot London -"

"It's entirely possible he's forgotten you. Is that it, dear?"

John nodded, and finished his glass of wine.

"Finish your chicken, John. I have a nice apple tart for pudding."

 

Billy was glad he had come back during the warmest, driest spring London had seen in decades. It was cool as the sun set, but not uncomfortable, and he had plenty of shade during the day, the worst part was that he was actually hungry. He quickly realized that he had once lived on the streets as a younger man because he knew how and where to find food. He had just had the best Italian food he'd had in years, as a large, jolly restauranteur had invited him in, and given him as many bowls of Pasta Carbonara as he could eat, it seemed to cheer the man up as he ate four heaping servings.

"You remind me of a friend, Billy. A friend who once saved me from a murder charge. He was a right arse, but had a good heart, the biggest heart I've ever seen."

Between bites Billy wrote him a note. "What happened to your friend?"

Angelo nodded sadly and looked down at the candle that was burning brightly and he whispered. "Dead now. Been dead some three years, but I swear I think I can still see him sometimes, dashing about as he used to - but he never had your appetite, it was all John could do to get him to eat a couple of bites. The only thing he would ever eat a ton of was my tiramisu. He loved that, John always rolled his eyes -"

"John?"

"Dr. John Watson."

Billy laid down his fork and closed his eyes before he wrote out shakily: "What was your friend's name, Angelo?"

Angelo cleared his throat and mumbled under his breath. "Sherlock Holmes."


	3. Chapter 3

John slept badly, and got up before his alarm went off. He had a late shift today, so he could have slept in, or at least stayed in bed for a couple more hours. But he had to see Billy again, or whomever he was. He wasn't even sure if he'd still be there, or - stop thinking. He'd get a couple of coffees and some bacon rolls, and a packet of those chocolate biscuits that were Sherlock's favo- damn. He pinched his nose and took a breath. Slow down. You don't really think it's him. You just want it to be him, you need it to be him, but if it is him, what happens now? He managed a shower and a quick shave, threw some clothes on and was out the door just as the sun was beginning to rise. He got to the bench where he had seen Billy the day before and found him still sound asleep. 

John shook his head at the strong resemblance once more; yes, he desperately needed a haircut and a shave, and he even noticed a stray grey hair or two, which made his breath catch, but it was him. It had to be him, no matter what logic and reason told him. Suddenly, Billy's hand shot out and grabbed John's wrist, and he sat up with a jolt. John froze. He knew Sherlock's hands. He knew at that moment that Sherlock Holmes was very much alive, and was sitting in front of him, trying to catch his breath. Ever so slowly, Sherlock released John's hand and mouthed. "I'm sorry."

John sat back on his heels and babbled, "I got you a coffee and bacon rolls, I wasn't sure how you took your coffee, if you even drink coffee, or if you just drink tea - he used to take it with -"

Billy rummaged through his pocket and found his notebook and pencil. " 'I'm not satisfied til the spoon stands straight up.' " *

John knew he must have looked as ridiculous as he felt when his jaw dropped. "You just quoted an obscure Tarantino script from the early nineties."

Billy shrugged and dug through the bag of bacon rolls and packets of sugar; John watched as he opened six packets, dumped them in, then stirred it carefully. He took a long slug of coffee then laid his cup down to write another note. "I know this is awkward. I lost my voice some time ago. I apologize. Believe me, I'd rather talk than write, especially considering my dominant hand is out of commission for the foreseeable future. Thank you for the coffee and the breakfast, it is kind of you. I don't think I'm very accustomed to kindness, but I'm not sure."

John read the note and nodded. "I wasn't very kind the last time I saw you. The last time we were in the same room, I called you a machine." John pinched his nose and shook his head. "Shit. I'm sorry. You can't be you. Or the you I think you have to be, but you aren't, you can't, you just can't, because you wouldn't have - you would have taken me with you, you wouldn't have made me believe you were -." He watched Billy's face crumble and he stopped. "God - I'm sorry. Listen. I need to go talk to someone. I should have asked her a long time ago, but I didn't want to know the answer. I promise I'll be back. Here - uhm, just in case you like chocolate biscuits - I got these too, and a new pencil, I noticed you were running out of pencil yesterday. Just stay here, please? I can't - I don't want to lose you again."

Billy searched John's face carefully for a long moment, then nodded and scribbled quickly before cringing. "Not used to writing so much. I have the feeling I used to text a lot, but my hands - I hope I am who you are looking for, John. I know you will have questions that I don't have answers for, even if I happen to be your friend. I'll be here when you get back."

John nodded and picked up his coffee, then took his mobile out of his pocket and began walking to Bart's.

 

Need to chat. - JW

When? - MollyH

Now. - JW

It's barely 7. - MollyH

Please. - JW

And pull Sherlock's autopsy record, please. - JW

 

"Shit." Molly turned off her phone and pulled out Sherlock's file. She knew this day would come eventually. She had lied to so many people, to protect one man. She sighed as she poured herself another cup of coffee, and waited for John Watson to appear. She could see that evening so clearly, the night when Sherlock had asked for her help, the first and last time he ever asked her for anything. She could see in his eyes that it was the last thing he wanted to do, but he had been given no choice, he had played the game until the rules had been irrevocably changed, and he had only one more move he could play.

" 'Can you do this, Molly? If it's too difficult, just tell me and it will be okay, I'm sure Mycroft can do it another way, you are the only person I trust to do this for me, and I know you can - ' "

"Molly?" 

Molly turned towards the door and saw John standing there. She'd seen the look in his eyes before, sadness and something utterly fierce raged through them, she had seen the look on the day Sherlock had died and he had asked to see her autopsy report. Asked wasn't the correct word. Demanded, and when that had failed, begged to see what had killed his best friend.

"John." She got up from her stool and stood in front of him.

"I need to know something. And I need to know the absolute truth."

"Ask me, John."

"Did I bury Sherlock Holmes three years ago? Was it my friend in that god awful box that I stuck in the ground and threw dirt on top of? Is Sherlock Holmes dead?"

 

Across town in what Anthea lovingly called "the cave," Mycroft had covered his face with his hands and couldn't bear to watch.

"Tell me when it's over."

Lady Smallwood rolled her eyes, but laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "It had to happen sometime, Myc." 

 

"No. No. And I don't honestly know, to tell you the truth."

John nodded and moved closer to her. She closed her eyes and waited for the rage that she deserved, but he didn't yell or growl or hiss at her. He kissed the top of her head and whispered so softly she barely heard him. "Thank you, Molly. I'll be angry later, maybe, but for now, you have no idea how much I adore you, Greg might be jealous if he knew."

"If I knew what?" Greg grinned at the two of them, a tray of two coffees was in his hand as he entered the lab.

John turned and faced his friend, a friend who had helped him to bury Sherlock or whom they had believed to be Sherlock three long years ago. 

"Sherlock is back. Now, wait, just listen to me. He's back, but he has no memory of being Sherlock. I found him on a bench in Regent's Park, he can't speak, I believe he's been tortured, he's definitely lost too much weight, but he's alive. I came here to find out if it was possible."

"Wait. Just what - no. John. Molly. How would Molly - oh. Damn. You signed off on the autopsy, on the death certificate. You told us that he was dead, Molly. For three years. I'm sure you had reasons, he had reasons. But - he's in Regent's Park? Sherlock - "

"Greg. Sit down before you pass out. Just give me, give him some time, I don't know what he wants, if he wants to be back or not -"

Molly helped Greg to a chair then nodded at John to go. "Just let us know when we can see him, if he wants to see us?"

John nodded to her with a gentle smile and disappeared out the door.

 

Mycroft breathed for the first time in four minutes, at least it felt that way, and he slowly moved his hands from his face as John Watson came back into view as he re-entered Regent's Park. It took a couple minutes for him to reach Sherlock's, Billy's bench. He wasn't sure he would find him there or not, he would have understood it completely if Billy had decided to bolt, leave him again, but John hoped that Billy had trusted him, had faith that John would help him if he wanted help. He rounded the corner and stared at the bench. He was gone. Again. John sat on the bench and looked down at his hands, when he heard the flutter of paper above him, and land gently next to him.

"Why do people never look up?" Read one.

John looked up to see Billy/Sherlock sitting on a branch in the tree, scratching away with his new pencil.

"I remember you were important to him, to me. Was I important to you?"

John looked up again and caught Billy/Sherlock's eye and nodded.

"Does it matter to you if I never remember everything? If I am not the same person you knew back then?"

John shook his head and yelled up to the tree, "Will you come down here?"

Billy nodded and gingerly climbed down to John.

"Am I him?" He looked into John's eyes, needing to know, so desperately wanting to be home, finally.

"I think so, of course we'll need to do blood tests and maybe do a DNA test to be sure, but I know. I know who you are. I knew for sure when you grabbed my wrist. I knew when you reached for me, Sherlock. I want to take you home, are you ready to go home?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and whispered, "221B Baker Street?"

John nodded and he felt tears well up. Sherlock opened his eyes and gently touched John's face. "Will you come home with me, John? Please?" His voice was rough, a bit broken, but it was the voice John had never thought to hear again, and finally the tears fell.

"Yes. Yes, of course I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * from True Romance, from 1993, starring Christian Slater, and Patricia Arquette, written by Tarantino, directed by Tony Scott.


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn't a long distance from Regent's Park back to Baker Street, but once Sherlock actually made a move to walk, John could finally see just how physically and emotionally exhausted his friend was. "Lean on me, it's okay, just hold on, Sherlock, I'll take a look once we get back, if that would be okay, I don't want to intrude, but -"

Sherlock squeezed John's hand, then held on tightly as they somehow found a natural, if slow stride through the park, and past the old landmarks that had barely changed over the last three years and finally onto Baker Street. John kept his thoughts and questions to himself, as he knew Sherlock couldn't respond in the way he wanted to, and was fading as he let more and more of what little weight he had lean into John.

"The knocker. John, I remember the knocker, it should be off-center, shouldn't it?" His voice rattled a bit, and It was softer than John recalled, but it had a remnant of the rich timbre that had haunted John for the last three years. John nodded and pushed it just as it had always been in his time, in their time.

"Your brother always straightened it."

"My brother - oh - right - 'The British Government'. Oh, John, I'm so tired."

"I know, just -"

"Seventeen steps, seventeen steps, John and home. And there's the creaky one." John pressed his lips into Sherlock's hair and felt him shudder slightly against him.

"Sorry," John mumbled as he kept moving up the stairs.

"Don't be. I always wanted you to."

"Did you?" John whispered.

"Mhmmm."

John pushed the door open to find Mrs. Hudson standing at the windows. She turned as she heard their uneven steps, and her hand flew to her mouth. "Boys. You'll just be needing the one room, then." John nodded as he helped Sherlock into his old room, now their room, which had been airing out, since Mycroft's call from the day before.

"A bath first, then rest, after I patch you up a bit?" John murmured as he helped Sherlock into a chair, and knelt before him. Sherlock reached out with his left hand and rested it in John's hair. They took a shattered breath together and Sherlock whispered, "you are real, John. I wasn't truly sure until now."

John turned just enough so he could kiss Sherlock's palm, then his fingers, until he heard Sherlock whimper softly. "I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"

Sherlock shook his head, and they were still for a moment until they heard Mrs. Hudson's voice in the bathroom, "Just going to run a bath for him, and then I'll disappear downstairs, take all the time you need. Oh, and John, Mycroft said he's taken care of your lease and the rest of your things will be sent over in the morning." John rolled his eyes and Sherlock grinned at him.

"Will you let me help?"

Sherlock nodded and John set to helping him out of his trainers which had seen better days, he had no socks, which sent a shudder through John. "Shhh, John, please?" John gingerly removed the oversized hoodie, then held his breath in order to stop a sob from escaping. He was even thinner than he had imagined, but he gently laid his trembling hands on Sherlock's hips, then looking up to ask permission saw all the questions, needs, wants and fears in Sherlock's eyes as he gave a brief nod.

"Raise up, a bit, yeah?" Sherlock lifted up just enough for John to slip the tattered trousers off. "Oh, Sherlock." John felt his friend shiver and then the tears began to fall. John shook his head and kissed Sherlock's forehead, then stood up slowly and lifted Sherlock into his arms. "I have you. You are safe now, I promise."

Mrs. Hudson had placed a towel covered chair in the bathroom, so Sherlock could sit while John got undressed. He heard Sherlock sigh quietly as John tugged off his t shirt, and he knew he was blushing, when Sherlock whispered, "you are so beautiful, John."

"No." John shook his head as he finished undressing and stood up to look at Sherlock, who had managed to stand, and slip out of his pants. "You are; thin, exhausted, bruised and broken as you may be, you are the most gorgeous, brilliant, amazing human being my eyes have ever seen, and I never told you how much I love you. Not once."

"Shh. I always knew, John. Now, will you help me into the tub?"

John tested the water to make sure it wasn't too hot, then helped Sherlock settle into the gently scented water, lavender, John thought, but his eyes and thoughts were focused on his friend who had closed his eyes and moaned in a way that threatened to shatter his heart - he quietly slid in behind him and cautiously wrapped his arms around him. John felt them both shiver at the same moment, as Sherlock relaxed into his chest, and let his head fall against John's strong shoulder. "We've never done this before have we? I think I would have remembered how this felt."

John whispered. "No, I had bandaged you up way too many times, there were times when I thought you asked me to move in with you so you had a doctor on call 24/7, but, no, we've never -" Sherlock shifted his weight just then and John couldn't help but let out a whimper. "God - Sherlock." He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's neck, then stopped. "I'm sorry. I - "

Sherlock reached for John's hand and placed it over his own heart. John could feel how very alive and present Sherlock was, "I am here, John. I want, I want everything you want, I never - I'm starting to remember, John, and there are parts I don't like about the person I was before, but I know - I would never want you to apologise for kissing me."

John snorted and murmured, "We should get you cleaned up before the water gets cold, hmm? I think I'll have to tackle the rat's nest tomorrow, yeah?" He felt Sherlock nod as he grabbed a flannel and added a bit of the body wash John couldn't bear to throw away before he had left - focus, he's here, with you, now. He's warm and alive and he's here. He gently ran the flannel over Sherlock's chest, observing the old scars he knew so well, and the new ones, god, there were so many new ones. He stopped and once again felt Sherlock's hand cover his. "Time, John, time heals just about everything, doesn't it? I'll be fine, we'll be fine, tell me we're okay, John, please?"

"Yes, Sherlock, we're okay, I promise." He continued to clean his friend until he was satisfied, and the water was growing cold. "I'm going to get out now, and then I'm going to lift you out, yeah?" Sherlock opened his eyes and John whispered brokenly. "Beautiful, so beautiful, I had almost forgotten. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I was beginning to let you go, I was trying to forget, because -"

Sherlock reached out his hand and touched John's lips, silencing the tumble of words. He didn't need to speak, it was all there in his eyes, the deep sorrow and the pain, and the love, the overpowering love that John knew could heal them both, given time. And as he reached for his friend and once more held him in his arms, John knew they would no longer waste time on the past, but live only in the time they had now. He carried Sherlock to their room, drying him carefully; then helped him to lay on his side. He bandaged what he could bandage, kissed those places that had been broken and wept with him as Sherlock began remembering, remembering far too much. Finally John laid down next to him, and waited. After a moment, Sherlock stretched out his arm, and pulled John closer. He laid a shaky hand over John's heart and mumbled hoarsely, "thank you for seeing me, thank you for bringing me home, John." John kissed his hair, as he felt Sherlock fall asleep, finally, in his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a few months later...

It was finally chilly enough for Sherlock to wear the Belstaff; his right hand and shoulder had healed slowly, and he was back to his old self, mostly, just a softer, kinder version, less impatient, usually.

"John, come on, hurry up!"

John finished wrapping Sherlock's scarf around his neck, as his mobility was still a bit suspect. "Don't get yer knickers in a twist, love." He kissed him lightly and ruffled his curls. "The park isn't going anywhere."

Sherlock looked into John's eyes and smiled. "Yeah, I know, sorry. I just - "

John nodded and grabbed his hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing his knuckles gently. It had been six months since they had been home. It hadn't been easy, or hard, exactly, John reflected, as Sherlock sighed, then grabbed his hand and pulled John out the door and down the steps, it just was, they just were. 

There wasn't a self-help book or 12 step program for how to deal when your best friend returns from the dead, but they had made it through all the rehab, the nightmares, and the strops, yes, of course, he was Sherlock, after all, so of course he had his moods, and John was John, so every once in a while, he needed some air, but every night, every single night, they undressed each other, and fell into bed together, they never slept apart, even when Sherlock tried to sleep on the couch because of the bad dreams that made him lash out. John would have none of it. He would lead Sherlock to bed, holding him tightly in his arms until Sherlock fell asleep, and he would hold him all night as he kept watch.

 

"Close your eyes," Sherlock whispered. "C'mon, close 'em. Are they closed?"

John grumbled but muttered, "yes, yes, yes, they are closed. Promise." He felt himself being propelled onto the bench, their bench, and then he was alone. "Sherlock?"

"I'm right here, in front of you. You can open your eyes now."

John looked down to see Sherlock kneeling in front of him, a small box in his large, trembling hand. "Please, John, tell me you will, I understand if you don't want to, if you can't - I know I'm difficult and arrogant and -" John bit his lip and nodded as he took the box from Sherlock's hand and opened it to find a simple, obviously old, but well-loved band. "It was my grandfather's - I loved him very much, and he was fond of me for some reason. He gave this to me for when I found the person I fell in love with. Somehow he knew - he knew I'd find you, or you'd find me, that we'd find each other - wait, you nodded, is that a yes, John, please tell me it's a yes?"

John nodded again and Sherlock smiled. "Yes. You said yes."

"Of course, yes. Yes, yes, yes."

"I love you."

John whispered, "I love you more."

"Are we seriously going to have this argument again?" Sherlock shook his head as John helped him to his feet, then pulled him onto the bench. Sherlock leaned against John's shoulder and closed his eyes. 

"What will your brother say?"

"Really, John? You have to bring him up now? Now?" Sherlock blew a curl from his eyes and turned to look at John. John pointed at the camera looking down on them. "Damn."

 

Congratulations, Brother, mine. - M

Piss off, Myc. - SH

 

He turned off his phone and glared up at the camera, then grinned and pulled John into a long, breathtaking kiss. John pulled away and looked into Sherlock's eyes, "You know - "

Sherlock nodded and kissed him once more. "Yeah, I know." He leaned into John's shoulder once more and they breathed together, as one.


End file.
